I freeze. "Shut up. I'm being professional."
"You were about to say that."
"It just came out! A slip! Could happen to anyone!"
Holt's voice cuts through the garage, flat and economical. "Don't say that to customers."
My stomach drops. "You heard that?"
"Everyone heard that."
I bury my face in my hands. "It just slipped out! I promise I'll be professional. I can be professional. I'm the queen of professional. Professional is my middle name. Scout Professional Adler, at your service—"
"Mrs. Rafferty loved it," Finn calls out, clearly enjoying this way too much. "I heard her laughing."
"That doesn't mean I should—"
"Scout." Holt's looking at me now, one eyebrow raised. "Just answer normally."
"Right. Normal. I can do normal." I absolutely cannot. "Normal is my specialty. I'm extremely normal. So normal it's boring. People fall asleep from how normal I am."
Finn's laughing. Holt's mouth does that thing again—the almost-smile that's gone before I can fully catch it, but I saw it. I'm counting that.
I go back to the desk feeling mortified and triumphant in equal measure.
The morning continues in what I'm generously calling controlled chaos. I'm organizing files when I realize Finn's "system" and Holt's "system" are locked in some kind of philosophical war.
"Finn," I call out, holding up an invoice. "Where do paid invoices go?"
"That pile over there." He gestures vaguely at approximately three different piles. "Or maybe that one. Honestly, if it's paid, who cares? Money's in the bank, invoice can live wherever it wants. It's free. It has rights."
I blink at him. "You don't file paid invoices?"
"I file them in the general vicinity. It's called intuitive organization."
"That's not organization. That's throwing papers and hoping."
"Works for me."
"How do you find anything?"
"I don't. I just make new invoices. It's very efficient."
"That's the opposite of efficient. That's—" I turn to Holt, who's at his workbench doing something with a wrench. Trying not to notice how his forearms flex when he works. Failing. "Holt, where do paid invoices go?"
"File cabinet." He doesn't look up. "Alphabetical. Last name. Paid in green folder, unpaid in red."
"Okay, but Finn just told me—"
"Finn's system doesn't work."
"My system works fine!" Finn's emerged from under the truck to defend his honor. "I know where everything is. It's all up here." He taps his forehead.
"You lost the Morrison invoice last week."
"I didn't lose it. I misplaced it temporarily."
"For three days."
